


Love Lies Bleeding

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Parent Amanda (Detroit: Become Human), Case Fic, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Emotionally Repressed, Eventual Happy Ending, Hanahaki Disease, Heartache, Heartbeats, Heartbreak, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, It's A Mixed Bag of Emotions, Lovesickness, M/M, Matchmaking, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sort Of, Soul Bond, Soulmates, The RK's are Cupids, Unrequited Love, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23879608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: Even in his earliest days, cases rarely took more than a day to close. After decades of casting his net across the globe, he’d honed his craft to razor precision. On an off day, he could open and close a case within the hour. If he felt particularly on point, he could pull it off in fifteen minutes. He didn’t like to rush these things, though. Humans were delicate and prone to breaking.This human, however—thisHank Anderson—was vexing.--This was supposed to be a cute and fluffy fic about the RKs as matchmaking cupids, but then I went and Made it Worse. I've never written the Hanakahi Disease trope before, and this isn't quite that, but it's the closest tag for what's happening.There is hope even if there is sadness. Hold out for the eventual happy ending. Just know it has some ragged edges.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 16
Kudos: 101





	Love Lies Bleeding

It’s a fragile thing once unleashed. It takes fifty-five pounds of pressure to draw the string back to his ear. The fletching whispers against his cheek like a lover’s parting kiss before streaking away toward his mark. It sings through the air, a triumphant tune that is both tempting and terrifying.

The man doesn’t stand a chance.

Connor’s arrow pierces the target under his left shoulder blade, lodging deep into his battered heart. The man rotates his shoulder as if shrugging out of a coat, but the arrow holds fast. A brutal red begins to seep up the shaft, pulling the tiniest bit of the man’s essence into the wood through the hollowed tip.

Data explodes in the background of Connor’s connected mind as infinite possibilities loop and discard with detached efficiency. He’s done this thousands of times. He’ll do it at least one thousand more before he can lay down his bow.

“Objective acquired,” he says the words aloud for his own benefit. His skin hums with the satisfaction of a job well done while new orders file themselves away for when he has time to look at them. For now, he has to follow his quarry and track him to a suitable mate.

There was something pleasing about working a challenging case. This one, file 1-555-436682273, had flummoxed many of his colleagues. Connor’s brother refused to even touch the case, claiming it was a career death sentence. Connor had bared his teeth, accepting the challenge. Amanda had been reluctant but she was out of options. Someone needed to close the file or risk clogging the system. Human hearts had a way of bleeding onto other cases if left ignored for too long.

His brother was adept enough at their line of work, as was everyone in his family, but Niles could be a bit cold in his approach. Their lives may be rigid and scheduled down to the minute, but it was rewarding work. Not just anyone could become an RK. Either you were born with the gift or you weren’t. Only certain families retained the romantic touch, and Connor’s relatives could count themselves among the remaining few. It disturbed him, sometimes, how limited their numbers are.

He’s seen the humans pull it off on their own before; they’d improved their odds slightly with crude technology. Even Connor had to admit that their tactics weren’t all that different from his own talents. However, the strange devices they all carried in their pockets lacked one crucial element to ensure success. They couldn’t taste the soul. Connor rolls the data across his tongue before tucking it away in his breast pocket. The RK’s have no hearts, but the man’s soul-bit flutters against Connor’s chest in imitation. 

Connor shadows the man, flickering from solar-powered lampposts to signal wires humming with a power not unlike his own. Stunning, necessary, and dangerous. His eyes track the protruding arrow as it weaves through the throngs of people, carefully avoiding contact.

After the first hour, his determination grows. He won’t fail, not like the others. He wouldn’t return home bearing the shame of a missed match.

By the end of the second day, he guzzling golden nectar straight from the wineskin.

“Shut up,” he hisses at his smirking sibling as he drags his hand across his mouth. Shimmering kisses pepper his skin where his drugged lips make contact. He smacks them away and they land with depressed plops by his feet like petulant raindrops. The scent of something delicate and sweet reminiscent of honeysuckle lingers long after they dissipate.

“Isn’t that…cheating?” Niles drags out the moment before letting the final word tumble from his lips. Connor wants to squash his brother’s pugnacious smirk between his hands before tossing him bodily into the trash.

“It’s allowed.” Connor can hear the inadequacy of the words. Any RK could use the drug to heighten the senses and highlight points of interest to their line of work. It was largely derided as a crutch for novice angels first learning the trade.

Connor takes another swig for good measure.

Even in his earliest days, cases rarely took more than a day to close. After decades of casting his net across the globe, he’d honed his craft to razor precision. On an off day, he could open and close a case within the hour. If he felt particularly on point, he could pull it off in fifteen minutes. He didn’t like to rush these things, though. Humans were delicate and prone to breaking.

This human, however—this _Hank Anderson_ —was vexing.

He’d been matched once before, but the RK had been clumsy and too drunk on nectar to care about compatibility. The match was tenuous and fraught with errors. It surprised no one when the threads unraveled. Without a mate, the arrow wilted, leaving Hank ripe for a rematch.

Humans only have a few matches in them before their hearts hardened. The arrows are powerful tools, providing feedback and insight, but it’s easy to forget they are weapons. Human hearts learn and adapt. With each failed puncture, it grows a protective layer. With enough failures, it learns to shut out the arrows altogether.

Hank’s heart proved to be surprisingly frail. That first failure nearly ruined him for future attempts and thus the unresolved file grew in infamy. None of the RKs were willing to risk failure and cut this human off from their influence—not when his suffering was their fault to begin with. Several had tried other approaches but returned empty-handed and ashamed. 

The arrows aren’t the only tool in the RK arsenal, but they were by far the most powerful when it came to intelligence gathering. The arrow’s method of finding a suitable match, however, was less precise and the source of Connor’s growing agitation.

“Beacon still giving you trouble?” Niles scans his nailbeds as if looking for microscopic imperfections. It was an unnecessary action as well as an olive branch. By taking up the mantel of an RK, he’d become as flawless as Connor.

Connor accepts the gesture, tossing a shimmering data packet across the crystalline table toward his brother. Niles’ arm darts out thirty-two degrees above parallel to snatch the iridescent tidbit. Zeroes and ones dribble from the ends like rivulets of ice cream down a cone. Niles absently swipes at a runaway piece of data, dragging it across his tongue.

His face contorts as if he’d just licked the anal glands of a particularly compacted beast, “Heaven have mercy, Connor. Have you sampled him?”

Connor cocks an eyebrow, “Of course, I have.”

Niles holds his brother’s gaze for a beat, “You have no taste then.”

Before Connor can do much more than bristle, Niles lobs the undulating wad of Hank’s soul back into the cradle of Connor’s palm. It pulses, warm and familiar, begging for a match. Connor pockets it with care. Hank will need it back, eventually.

Once Connor finds a suitable mate, the arrow will splinter into dozens, possibly hundreds, of gossamer strands. He’ll weave them into the match’s heart, sealing their bond with the soul fragment. The number of strands depends on the compatibility of the mate. The higher the compatibility, the more strands the soul fragment produces.

Hank’s first match had met the bare minimum of strands. Minimum matches rarely succeeded. They required pristine conditions with zero outside stressors. Connor didn’t pretend to understand human woes, but even he knew the loss of a child would test the best of matches. Hank’s meager connection to his first mate grew brittle within the hour of the loss. They disintegrated like dead leaves under an uncaring heel within a matter of months.

Hank’s case had always irritated him. He’d wanted it from the start, but his mother had refused to the point of bullheadedness. She’d accused Connor of playing favorites, of weakness.

Rage wasn’t an emotion he was well-acquainted with, but he’d hurled back words tipped with needle length barbs:

_You know nothing of love!_

They’d struck her in the cheek and her head had whipped to one side from the force of it. Connor should have known better. Words had power. Intent could kill if he wasn’t careful. His mother stared at him calculatingly before she cast him out of the network for a year. He was cut off from his work, his family, and from Hank.

By the time her fury thawed and she let Connor back in, the damage had been done. Connor had wilted when he heard the case was closed. It took everything in his power to rein in his anger when he saw the connection that the RK had shaped. He didn’t need a repeat experience living as a mortal. It had been a hellacious year, even if he couldn’t remember most of it. A persistent ache plagued him anytime he tried to focus on those lost months; better to leave it in the past. Still, it had given him much greater insight into his perplexing target.

Human emotions were difficult to grasp for most RKs. It was why they needed the arrows. All of the data in the world wasn’t enough to ignite sustainable love, though. Even with the bit of soul Connor carried against his chest, it was dangerous to seal a match without the arrow’s approval.

It was crude, but the arrow acted as a lighthouse for unmatched souls. The human heart craved love and the arrow reeled prospects in by the dozens. It was not without its problems, however. Initial attraction is easy, but such sparks fizzled over time without an RK’s nurturing, guiding hands. The arrow resisted incompatible souls, leaning away from needy tendrils of aching hearts.

It also grew brighter when a possible match was near. It pulsed radiantly enough to blind human eyes if they could see it when near a congruous soul. Most RKs wouldn’t settle for just any match that came along. There was a beauty in watching the arrow throb with desire before bursting into strands to weave a bond with another soul. Strong matches were deeply satisfying, gilding an RK in an ethereal glow and replenishing their reserves.

It was the closest they would ever come to tasting love.

“The arrow has to be faulty,” Connor repeats himself for the dozenth time. Niles shrugs as he stretches a strand of his latest soul across his fingers. “Stop playing with your food,” Connor snipes, and Niles stows the shuddering fragment under his cap.

“You’re growing weaker by the hour, Connor. You won’t be able to tolerate the nectar for much longer. You need to eat.” Niles gestures at the filing cabinet of available cases, but Connor shakes his head. “What is it with you and this human? Hell’s rotten apples, Connor. He’s not worth it. What if she doesn’t let you back in this time?”

Connor can’t quite meet his brother’s gaze. He knows what he’s risking the longer he goes without feeding. No one who remained above knew what happened to those who wilted. Rumors abounded that Amanda cast them out or deconstructed them to their basic components to make more arrows. Connor doubts the stories are true, but he knows none of the fallen ever return.

Strong hands cup his face and steel-gray eyes bore into his, “The arrow isn’t broken. It’s as infallible as you or I. You need to let this human go before it kills you.”

Connor extricates himself from his brother’s grip with care, but his words slash at Niles’ good intentions, “Its name is Hank.”

Another day passes, and Connor’s throat constricts sharply around a sip of honeyed gold. He splutters, and his stomach churns and froths until he expels the scant amount that made it down his gullet. Opalescent plumes blossom from his lips, leaving a vaguely botanic scent in their wake.

Niles shakes his head but holds his tongue. Connor leaves the wineskin between them before setting out on another fruitless day of following Hank and his pulsing arrow.

He watches him dress, taking bets with himself on what Hank will choose. He looks on with interest as Hank shaves, wondering what the bristles feel like, so different from his largely hairless body. His chest squeezes when Hank reaches for a bottle of amber liquid too early in the afternoon. This, too, is his fault.

Once pierced, the heart was prone to theatrics. It all but screamed for its mate with every pulse of the arrow. It knows as well as Connor that Hank’s match is within reach. Hank’s heart loses hope with each passing day, but Connor wills it to hang on a little while longer.

Connor’s stomach constricts painfully when Hank climbs into his lonely bed no closer to his match. He sleeps face down and the arrow points straight at Connor like an accusation. His hands tremble as the fire in his gut roars its dissatisfaction. He’s out of time.

“What are you doing?” Niles’ voice pierces Connor’s throbbing head from somewhere far away.

“Watching him,” Connor’s hands gesture helplessly before flying up to his mouth. His stomach contorts harshly enough to bring him to his knees. He collapses through several layers of reality that separate him from the human world. Most RKs didn’t bother to breathe the same air as the humans. It left them melancholic with a bitter aftertaste. Love was palpable here and heartless creatures couldn’t bear the flavor for long.

Connor’s face compresses into the soft curves of Hank’s comforter as he retches weakly. Nothing comes up that he can see, but Connor knows the symptoms of his imminent collapse are there even if they’re invisible on this plane. The smell manages to penetrate the fog surrounding the human world, though. It’s easier to identify the fragrance here.

“Roses,” Niles comments somewhere to Connor’s left. Niles won’t follow, he won’t allow the love that floats freely here like pollen to coat his skin. Still, he won’t leave Connor alone in his final moments, either. Connor manages to open his eyes at the barest sensation of fingers touching his cheek. He reaches weakly but his fingers glide through Niles like air.

“Why are you doing this?” Niles rewords the question and his voice cracks with the effort to suppress the emotions every RK learned to ignore. He knows better than to allow feelings into his hollow chest. Without a heart, emotions are dangerous.

“I don’t understand,” Connor whispers, stretching to rest his hand over Hank’s upturned palm. Hank shivers in his sleep. The corner of Hank’s mouth twitches at the contact and tension unravels in his shoulders as he sinks deeper into a dream.

“What don’t you understand?” Niles’ tone perplexes Connor enough to summon the energy to frown. He doesn’t have enough left of himself to parse deeper meaning from confusing questions. If Niles knows something he doesn’t, if he’s been holding back—

“What don’t you understand?” Niles repeats the question with urgency as ghostly fingers try to shake Connor awake. He hadn’t noticed he’d been drifting.

“Why no one loves him,” Connor exhales the words and pain flares inside him in a turbulent warning. He’d shadowed Hank for years—for most of Hank’s adult life. He’d known the first match was wrong. He’d spent countless hours, months, years pouring over the data, building a match profile that couldn’t fail. He knows what Hank needs. He’s tasted the bitter sweetness of his soul. He wants to soothe away the hurt. The arrow can’t be wrong, a match _has_ to be near, but it refuses—

“This human,” Niles’ voice is gentle as if afraid the words may break him, “is very much loved.”

“ _Then where is his match?_ ” Connor tries to sob, but it comes out dry and cracked with the cloying scent of dying flowers.

“Near,” Niles says simply, infuriatingly. A hand smooths over Connor’s hair, tucking a stray piece back into place. Connor’s vision swims alarmingly and he chokes on something achingly sweet.

He doesn’t feel the steel-tipped shaft protruding from his ribs. He doesn’t remember the souvenir he brought back from his days spent in the mortal realm. He hadn’t felt it or seen it any more than the other humans ever did when an arrow pierced their heart.

“I’ll miss you,” Connor hears the words, tastes the sorrow, but the pain in his chest numbs his lips. His mouth falls open, empty, and without words. He tries to meet his brother’s gaze, hoping his eyes can convey his apology, his goodbyes.

His body trembles as his stomach heaves and surges the last of what’s left of him up his esophagus. The fragment of Hank’s soul tumbles to the bed from the safety of Connor’s shirt, casting a pale glow around the room. Connor tastes himself on his tongue and takes comfort in the familiarity. It reminds him of Hank.

The borrowed bit of Hank’s essence rises slowly and Connor blinks rapidly in appreciation. He may have failed Hank, but Niles won’t leave Hank broken. Once Niles returns that small bit of soul, Hank’s heart will harden, but he won’t waste away like Connor. He’ll get to live without the burden of a missing piece, even if he’s alone.

Although his face bears limited expression, Connor can sense Niles’ hesitation. He hangs doggedly to the last bit of himself, clenching it between his teeth. He needs to see. He needs to know Hank will be all right.

Fingers more gentle than butterfly wings pull it from his lips.

_Let go_.

He knows the voice, but the name dances on the tip of his tongue just out of reach. He tries to shake his head, but he’s faded too far to keep fighting. The last morsel of his amaranthine light flickers out and love is no longer his burden to bear.

Niles stares at the husk that had been his brother, understanding for the first time why the humans wail after a loss. He arranges Connor in a facsimile of repose, clinging to desperate, dangerous hope. Time passes strangely for his kind, but those silent seconds age him by several scores until—

A soft flutter, like a fledgling chick spreading his wings.

The wilted organ in Connor’s chest effloresces into an unmistakable throb. One beat becomes two and Connor’s back arches violently as thousands of threads finer than floss explode from his chest.

Niles stands over his fallen brother doing what every RK can do with closed eyes. The weaving isn’t complicated but it will take longer with so many strands. He won’t rest, though, until he accounts for every tenuous fiber. The RKs don’t cry, but Niles finds himself wishing he knew how.

Niles rests his hand gently over Connor’s chest as the last strand knits into place. A heavy, panicked tattoo beats against his palm.

Hearts are unpredictable, histrionic things. So close to his match, Connor’s heart wasn’t content to wait. 

“Will he remember me?” Niles demands, his sadness barely leaving Amanda enough room to speak. He knows she’s there even if she retains more walls between herself and the human world than all of the RKs combined. She was always there to watch her children fall.

She pats his cheek through the veil, but the hurt doesn’t recede, “Sometimes. In his dreams.”

Niles knows he shouldn’t linger on the mortal plane for much longer. The risks are too high to let anguish run rampant in his empty chest. He doesn’t have a heart to break, but he understands his brother a little better. This sensation is too heavy a weight to carry.

Still, he waits. He’ll hold his vigil as much for what he’s lost as for what remains. He folds the small bit of Hank’s essence among the threads like a parent tucking in a child. His skin erupts in a radiant corona of light as Connor’s soul binds to his match.

He tugs on the thick golden cord tethering Connor to Hank. He knows his work, knows the connection will hold true. Niles looms over Connor, whispering in his ear.

_I made the shot for you._

“He can’t hear you. Not anymore.” Amanda’s voice is neutral and Niles understands why Connor found her to be cold.

The soft smile on Connor’s face, more serene than he’s ever seen him, tells him she’s wrong.

He leans over Hank, gazing through the layers of hurt that had ravaged his heart, “You knew.” He turns his scrutiny to the space where Amanda’s voice had been, “That’s why you kept them apart. Why you nearly broke this man. To keep him.”

“Connor was mine,” Amanda says it simply as if human collateral is an acceptable thing.

Niles looks away before she can see the rage flourishing inside him; before she can see his heart blossom out of his loss.

The hurt eases when he gazes as the bond he’d wrought, “Not anymore.”

Niles’ chest aches with pulsing knowledge. It throbs against his ribs, screaming in triumph and agony. He staggers to one knee under the weight of it and finds himself kneeling by Hank’s side much as Connor had been when he shed his immortal cloak.

“Have a care with his heart,” he murmurs into Hank’s ear. “It’s more fragile than you think.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


End file.
